Second Chances | A Teen Fic Dystopian Tale

Chapter 14 **

Arav's POV:

TRIGGER WARNING !!! please read the following note carefully before proceeding with the chapter.

This chapter is going to contain extreme sexual violence description, 70% inner turmoil, 20% action and 10% backlash. It was extremely difficult for me to write this chapter, without feeling like I had to throw the story and this plot out of the window, but, somehow, it felt necessary. Regardless of if you've signed up with me for a R4R or you're a judge, if you're not comfortable with this sort of mature content, skip to the next chapter, really, its fine for me. Your safety and mental health comes first! <3

However, if you do decide to proceed with it, and that's on your accord, I would appreciate any constructive feedback on where I can improve, but, don't make it a negative backlash haha!

That aside, here's the chapter 14 for you ;)

Timeline of Events - 2006

"I trusted you," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of betrayal and disbelief. Maya's cruel laughter echoed through the empty alley, intensifying the feeling of shattered innocence and broken trust that had left me with a deep sense of pain and confusion.

"It's not about trust, my dear boy. It's about power," she had whispered, her voice a venomous caress that sent a shiver down his spine.

I stood there, a cascade of conflicting emotions swirling within me like a tempest.

The air hung heavy with the weight of revelation as I took in the sight before me. Maya, the confidante I had shared my innermost thoughts with, materialized in the flesh, but the image shattered the illusion I had crafted in my mind.

I looked on, the air felt thick with the weight of revelation. Maya, the person I had confided in and shared my deepest thoughts with, appeared before me in the flesh. However, the vision shattered the illusion I had constructed in my mind.

As I watched her, my mind tried to reconcile the person I had imagined with the one standing before me. The warmth of our virtual connection collided with the stark reality of her physical presence.

Her calculated steps and the clumsy daze that surrounded her told a story that I had seen before, a story that was etched in my memory from my father's drunken moments.

The nights were never the same when the bottle found its way into my father's hands. It was a transformation, subtle yet profound, as if the familiar contours of his personality were painted over by the brushstrokes of a different, more volatile spirit.

I remember the way his movements became a delicate ballet of imbalance, each step a precarious dance with gravity. The once-sturdy hands, now betrayed by the influence of alcohol, would fumble through the simplest tasks. It was a silent struggle, a battle waged in the quiet corners of our home.

His words, once laced with wisdom and warmth, took on a different cadence. They stumbled and slurred, losing their coherence in the labyrinth of inebriation. Conversations that used to be anchors in our relationship now floated away like drifting balloons, their strings slipping through his intoxicated fingers.

There was no violence, no explosive anger that left the walls echoing with its aftermath. Instead, there was a grumpy haze that settled over him, a cloud of discontent that cast shadows on every interaction. The air buzzed with unspoken tension, a silent storm gathering strength in the midst of our domestic tranquility.

I recall the way his gaze would wander, unfocused and distant, as if searching for something beyond the walls of our home. In those moments, he became an enigma, a puzzle with missing pieces that no amount of searching could solve. The man I knew retreated into the recesses of his own thoughts, leaving behind a mere echo of his former self.